


Forged a Warrior

by theoreticalpixy



Category: Thor (2011), Thor (Comics)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, Gen Fic, Growing Up, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticalpixy/pseuds/theoreticalpixy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was not always the goddess of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forged a Warrior

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boosette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boosette/gifts).



> Originally for Boosette's fandom stocking. I see it as movieverse but heavy comics influenced so take it as you will.

Sif first picks up a sword at the same age any of Asgard do. Wooden and blunt, a child’s plaything. It will be years before any of them are allowed real weapon, this is only a game for the youngest children.

She cannot say she knew it the first time. No, there is no bolt of instinct or sharp mystical understanding. She is only a young goddess who hits her friends with a dull wooden sword and is beaten in return, mimicking what they see their elders do. She enjoys the game, has skill at it, but does not yet know her fate. The game lasts until they all laugh and fall over bruised and happy. It will be replayed many times, all falling together in one breadth of memory. Breeze through her hair, scent of wood, the feel of hand too tight around grip, laughter and smiles, and the bruises that take days to fade.

It’s not until she’s older, growing out of childhood and starting to become a woman. Until she has learned bitterness and vanity and arrogance. They’re all young and brash, cruel in ways children are and not aware enough to be ashamed yet. She teases Loki and holds hands with Thor and her world is a small simple thing.

But things start to shift, as they do, and the days find Sif weeping selfishly over her lost hair. It’s black now and there is nothing that can be done and she hates it. She hates the hair. She hates Loki. She hates herself for being cruel to him. She hates her tears that keep slipping out of her eyes though she tries to will them to stop. Sif looks at herself in the mirror and doesn’t know who she sees.

They had whispered her name would be goddess of harvest when she was young, hair golden like wheat and big hearted. With her dark locks and face red from crying all she can see is a goddess of bitterness. She sleeps that night in tosses and turns, uneasy and wounded.

When she picks up a practice blade in the morning there is fire in her veins like never before. Thor tells her the black is lovely. Her blade sings as it slices air harsh and swift. She can feel his eyes at her back, watching her angry practice against sky. Sweet Thor, whom she loves already more than she knows what to do with in her still growing heart.

Lovely. The word rings in her ears. Sif doesn’t wish to be lovely anymore. Her blade moves faster. She will be strong instead.

And she does.

Each day she grows stronger and Sif defies all who tell her to give up blade. Magic is a woman’s gift, they tell her, follow that. You are almost of age now, it’s time to put your sword to rest. You will never be as strong as the men, they say. You cannot only pursue war little one, her mothers chide. Sif attends the lessons anyway, proving herself a better student than half the boys and their teachers eventually stop telling her to go home.

Sif practices day and night, follows every lesson and works to gain strength enough to even her brethren. She has seen what magic can do. Bears the reminder upon her head every day, and Sif wants no part of it. So she trains.

She is good at it. Skilled in blade and light of foot, has always been. When she was younger and lighter she used to dance; now the sword is her favored partner. She trains hard and long hours. Trains until her body aches and then she pushes even further. The grit of dirt and determination constant companions, the ache of muscle forever lingering. Her muscles grow and strain and the changes are slow but she keeps sharp watch. At night she doesn’t dream, just slips into black respite until she wakes when the dawn crackles over her. Sif wakes and reaches for her blade, a never ending cycle of work. Her sword is the first and last thing she tends too each day.

She trains not just with sword, but with axe and staff and bow as well. Her range of skills will be an arsenal, so no one can dismiss her. They do not understand her drive. They scoff at her, and she takes their words as fuel to consume. Her mothers worry, her instructors remain skeptical, Loki teases, but Thor and Balder and Heimdall support her and that is more than enough. She could have none behind her and still she would fight.

In practice she feels alive, feels purpose. She starts to forget what it was like before she took up blade. Sif trains and each day her certainty rises that there is no other calling for her. The Lady Sif is meant to be a warrior she swears, with all the single mindedness of youth. She is right of course, but the fates are not yet ready to tell her that.

She works her way through her class, besting each boy and moving to harder. She will show them all what she can do. She knows what she must achieve for them to accept her. She is stubborn and slowly but surely she is winning. She trains and studies, learning new moves, studying tricks of blade, studying her classmates, and finds ways to beat each one in turn no matter what their strengths.

The day Sif levels an overconfident Thor in the arena for all to see the objections grow quiet.

Victory.

She washes her face that night and when she looks in the mirror she isn’t haunted by images of golden hair. No, dark and strong and maybe even beautiful is the face that stares back at her. Her face. Eyes bright under dark sweep of brow, childhood has fallen from her features the past years. The cut of jaw and cheek coming to prominence instead in adolescence. She washes blood and sweat and dirt from her skin, refreshed and new. She is fierce, she is a warrior; she is a woman. Sif smirks, proud of what she has become. What she has made herself into.

She sleeps sound, dreams pleasant and light, for what seems the first night in ages.

When the time comes she is named Goddess of War and Sif can think of no title she would rather have.


End file.
